


Tweedle-Dee & Tweedle-Dumb

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Alvaro and Raul have a fight and all hell breaks loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tweedle-Dee & Tweedle-Dumb

_**June 2nd, 2011. Barcelona, Spain.**_

Xavi is dreaming of La Masia when the phone rings. It takes him a minute to realize that the weight against his ankles are tangled blankets and not enemy boots. He flails around for the nightstand, knocks something over (hopes it isn't the team photo), and closes his fingers around his phone just as it stops buzzing.

He blinks at the LCD screen. Swears when it goes off again. The caller ID reads: _Fabregas_.

"Good evening," he says first, because that is the polite thing to do. Then, because it is 3:24 a.m., "Cesc, I thought we decided that a midnight escape was _not_ going to be part of the plan to get you home."

"No, no," Cesc interrupts before Xavi can remind him further of what Pep said last week during their secret Skype conference call. "Listen, Xavi. Code Red."

Code Red. That's not an intra-club code, that's.... Xavi sits up.

"What happened?"

He hears Cesc take a deep breath,

"Arbeloa and Albiol broke up."

-

_**Earlier that day. Boston, USA.**_

It starts, as it usually does, with something that Alvaro tweeted.

"But I didn't _mean_ it that way!"

Pepe winces when Raul slams the door hard enough for the sound to reverberate all the way down the hall to where half the team is crammed into Iker's room, door slightly ajar, eavesdropping like the concerned teammates that they are. They listen to Alvaro curse, kick at a wall.

Silence.

When the footsteps turn in their direction, Fernando hastily closes the door and motions for them all to be quiet. His cheeks are pale, the freckles visible even from where Pepe is standing.

The elevator pings. Pepe listens for another few seconds just to make sure, then coughs politely. "Nando, don't you think you should let Sergio go? He's asphyxiating."

Fernando looks confused for a moment. Then a choked sound from his left draws his attention; Sergio flails, gesturing at the arm Fernando had thrown out to silence him and which is now not only cutting off all noise, but all air as well. Fernando hastily withdraws his arm.

One problem down. "Now," Pepe continues. "Who's got a phone?"

Sergio, still wheezing, flails for his jacket which is lying on a bed halfway across the room. Iker takes pity and takes out his iPhone. "I'll check," he says without even waiting for Pepe to ask.

They watch with bated breath while Iker clicks, scrolls, clicks again...

"Well," says Iker. "He checked into FourSquare. Going downtown."

A collective groan threatens to fracture the room at its seams. Pepe backs away as people spill out of the small entryway and over every available surface. Xabi perches on the lone armchair while Silva nabs what remaining space there is on the bed after Pique has flopped over it. Fernando heads for the minibar, Sergio right behind him.

"We have to do something about this," Xabi says.

Iker looks distinctly uncomfortable. "As team captain, maybe I should go talk to Raul and—"

"Really? I thought you would be on Arbeloa's side," Silva interjects.

"What?"

"They just broke up." Silva speaks as if talking to a particularly dim child. "So now we have to pick a side. Arbeloa or Albiol?"

"Yes but," Iker still looks confused, "what does _Raul_ have to do with that?"

Pepe figures it out first,

"He meant Raul Gonzalez. Not Albiol."

There's a collective _ohhh_ followed by a snort. "Boy, you guys sure are slow sometimes," says Pique. Silva turns his head slowly, as if it pains him, to give Pique a disbelieving look.

No one else says anything. Just down the hall, the ominous silence from Raul's room (formerly Raul&Alvaro's) seems a ticking time bomb.

"If we do pick sides," Xabi says, "Iker at least should remain neutral."

Pepe nods. That makes sense. As an afterthought, he adds,

"But everyone else is fair game, right?"

-

Pique moves fastest, texting Fabregas before Pepe's even finished speaking. Sergio and Fernando make for Xabi as one, apparently with an opposing set of arguments regarding whose side Xabi should take. And Silva has disappeared sometime in the midst of all this.

Pepe heads upstairs to find Villa.

"So," Pepe announces as he walks into Villa's room, "Arbeloa and Albiol had a fight."

Villa is sitting in bed, in his pajamas. He looks at Pepe blankly for a moment. "I heard. Literally. They're pretty loud."

"They broke up," Pepe clarifies. "Whose side are you going to take?"

Villa rolls his eyes. "Do I have to?"

"Silva is going to."

Villa groans, "He would," but doesn't object.

"I know. He's going to take Albiol's side." Pepe doesn't actually know that for a fact, but he figures you can round up from 80%. "Which is why you should join me on Team Alvaro."

"What? That makes no sense. If Silva—"

Pepe cuts him off. "Listen, Chori is really mad. As he should be. So if we all take his side, he'll just have more reason to believe in himself. And Alvaro's an ass. Which will result in them breaking up for good. On the other hand, if we take Alvaro's side and deny all wrongdoing, Albiol will come around eventually. They love each other more than they get on each other's nerves."

Villa's brow has furrowed deeper and deeper the longer Pepe talks. "I don't get it," he says finally. "Why do I care if they get back together?"

"Because," Pepe raises one eyebrow, "the last time Albiol was single, he spent all his time with Silva."

He watches with satisfaction as a look of horror dawns on Villa's face, followed quickly by a scowl, before settling into annoyance.

"Right," says Villa. "We're Team Arbeloa."

-

Xabi can feel a headache coming on.

"But _Liverpool_." Fernando seems to be under the impression that he can make a point valid if he just repeats it often enough. "You can't let Alvaro walk alone!"

Xabi considers asking Fernando why he left, then, if Liverpool really meant that much to him. Xabi also considers punting a football into Fernando's face. Or running. Running is always an option.

Sergio is just sitting there with a frown on his face, being completely unhelpful.

A knock sounds at the door.

"Hey guys," says Silva, poking his head in, "just letting you know, Team Raul is meeting downstairs in the lobby in ten minutes."

"That's your cue," Fernando says to Sergio pointedly. Sergio frowns harder. Xabi spares a moment to hope he doesn't injure himself trying to think of a retort.

"I bought cupcakes," Silva adds.

"Again, Sergio, that's—" Fernando pauses mid-sentence. He turns.

Silva is standing in the doorway, holding a plain white bakery box. He lifts one corner demurely, "The frosting looks really good."

Xabi can see Fernando's throat working as Silva scrapes a bit of the aforementioned frosting and licks it off his finger.

"So," says Silva. "Team Raul. Downstairs. See you there."

Sergio is still frowning when Silva disappears down the hall. Fernando seems frozen. Xabi bites his lip, telling himself that it would _not_ be a good idea to laugh. That, indeed, it would be _very mean_ and _altogether inappropriate_ and—

"You should be on Chori's side, you know," Sergio says to Xabi. "Maybe. Do you like cupcakes?"

"No!" Fernando shouts, then looks abashed. "I mean. That's no reason to— I just need to. Go. For a minute. Be right back."

Xabi opens his mouth to tell Fernando to save a cupcake for him, but the striker is already gone. Sergio's hair stirs faintly, then settles.

"But do you?" Sergio asks after a moment. "Like cupcakes."

Xabi pinches the bridge of his nose. "No," he says very slowly. "But Nando does. So if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to this strategic meeting of Team Raul. You might want to head downstairs before Nando eats them all, by the way."

Xabi gets up even as a look comprehension finally dawns on Sergio's face. He leaves that epiphany to sort itself out.

-

"So, then," says the disembodied voice from Pique's laptop. "Cesc has filled me in on relevant background info. What remains now is to formulate a plan of attack..."

Sergio raises his hand. "Sorry," he says, "but can you please turn on your webcam?"

"What? I'm not connected? Gerard!"

"Sorry, sorry." The sounds from the laptop are muffled as Pique hovers over it, fiddling with cables and clicking at pop-up dialogue boxes. He backs away to reveal a slightly-pixelated but clearly-disgruntled Xavi.

"Have we established a connection?"

His mouth isn't quite in sync with his voice, but Silva hits Sergio before the defender can protest again. Pique gives Xavi a thumbs up.

"Good, now as I was saying— Torres! For the love of football, leave those cupcakes for one moment and pay attention! You'll never be first-choice striker again with that attitude."

In the bottom left corner of the screen, Fabregas ducks beyond his webcam's range; there's a muffled choking sound. A concerned look crosses Pique's expression. Silva works to keep a straight face himself as Torres slinks over to join the semicircle facing the laptop.

Iniesta raises his hand.

"Andres?"

"Since we're Team Raul, shouldn't we be consulting with Raul?"

Silva shakes his head. "He'll be too upset to string together a coherent sentence right now, much less a plan of attack. Better to do this part without him."

"And let's face it," Fernando mutters, "it's _Raul_."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sergio asks.

"That I'm glad we have the numbers, if nothing else." Silva ignores the confused look Sergio and Pique turn on him, along with the indignant protest from Fabregas. Especially Cesc, actually. Silva is pretty sure he’s the one responsible for this hostile Barca takeover of Team Raul.

He raises his voice, "Anyway! You were saying about a plan, Xavi?"

That shuts everyone up. Sergio pouts and slouches closer to Torres—who pats him on the head, absently, before reaching for another cupcake.

Xavi nods. "Obviously, I am quite disappointed in Arbeloa. I don't doubt that he was in the wrong. However, the situation as it stands is intolerable. We must make them forget this incident as quickly as possible so their relationship may resume as if uninterrupted."

" _What?_ " Silva says, incredulous, even as Fabregas chimes in, "Exactly what I was thinking!"

Iniesta and Pique are nodding. "Good plan, Xavi."

"Uh, no." Silva stands up. "How about no, _not_ a good plan? That is no way to deal with a break-up. Ignoring stuff doesn't make it go away, okay, and they don't even have the luxury of distance to sort things out and you know they still have feelings and—"

They're all staring at him. Even Torres, a half-chewed cupcake in his hand and Sergio's hair spilling over his shoulder.

"We should think of what Raul wants," Silva finishes lamely. He sits down.

"I think he would want to get back together with Arbeloa," Xavi says. "They seem to like each other quite a bit, illogical as it is."

"Yes, but." Silva isn't giving in this easily. "We need to make Arbeloa apologize. It was his fault."

Sergio looks confused again. "Wouldn't it be easier to just, I dunno. Lock them in a closet until they made up?"

That is not the _point_ , Silva opens his mouth to say. But Iniesta beats him to it,

"That would be most efficient, I think. Xavi?"

Xavi is nodding, to Silva's horror. "Yes. I think so. Do we know Arbeloa's current location?"

"Just a sec," Fabregas says. There's the sound of typing. "According to twitter... He is at a movie theater, downtown. Twenty minutes away without traffic."

"Look up the features," Xavi orders. "Cross-check the action film titles with their playing times for when Arbeloa will most likely return. We might also take into account the possibility that he will catch a double feature."

"He's not going to see _Twilight_ ," Silva mutters, but no one hears him.

Fabregas concludes a minute's worth of furious typing with a triumphant _clack_. "Got it! He'll be back around 11:20. Midnight at the latest."

"Thank you for your work, Cesc," Xavi says gravely. "Now, men, here is what we will do..."

-

Xabi knocks once, twice, then opens the door.

Villa is sprawled on his bed with headphones on, while Pepe is perched in an armchair, texting. Pepe notices him first.

"Ah, as I suspected!" Pepe all but crows and turns to Villa, "Cough up. You owe me fifty."

Villa looks up at that. Scowls when he sees Xabi, reaches for his wallet.

Xabi doesn't roll his eyes, "Good evening to you both," and helps himself to the only other chair in the room.

"Still bleeding Liverpool red?" Pepe grins. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, Xabier. You know what they say, blood is thicker than water and all that."

Villa snorts. "Yeah, because it's definitely _blood_ that him and Gerrard have between them."

Xabi chucks the nearest object at Villa's face. Luckily, it turns out to be a throw pillow. The tea set is also within reach, come to think of it. But Pepe has this shit-eating grin on his face, and Xabi is not going to play their game. What happens between Steven and himself _stays_ between Steven and himself, and—

"By the way, have you called him yet? He's about ready to go out and karaoke some Phil Collins, judging by his latest texts."

—scratch that, Xabi is dumping his useless wet mop of a boyfriend.

"That's not what I came to talk to you about," he manages. Quite civilly, he might add. If a bit stiff.

"What, you want to talk about _them_? Albiol is moping, and Alvaro is still an ass." Pepe shrugs. "Hardly news."

"Yes, to the Alvaro situation," Xabi assents. "But I don't think Raul's moping anymore. I passed by their room just now."

Villa sits up. "And?"

"Did they make up?"

"They did." Xabi raises one eyebrow. "Quite vigorously, I should say."

He watches as Villa and Pepe exchange a look. Pepe checks his watch,

"You owe me another twenty."

Villa throws the pillow at him.

-

"Raul?"

Alvaro's voice is mostly muffled in the pillow, but Raul can feel the breath on his shoulder. He rolls over. Smiles sleepily, "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry," Alvaro says.

Raul traces the curve of his cheek. "You already said."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Raul kisses the half-formed protest back into Alvaro's stubborn mouth. Alvaro huffs, still fighting him. Raul slides his knee between Alvaro's legs; Alvaro's ankle curls around his, lips parting for Raul's tongue as his eyes flutter closed.

Raul likes the way Alvaro's lashes curl over his cheek.

He lets his hands wander. Alvaro's arms, elbow, neck; the spot just below his shoulder blade, the one that makes him curl into Raul's touch like a cat seeking the sun; the jutting angle of his hipbones; his thighs. Every bump and blemish, there's not an inch of Alvaro that Raul doesn't know.

So it's funny, sometimes, when Alvaro thinks he needs to explain himself more than once. Because Raul already knows. Raul isn't smart like Alvaro, maybe, but when it comes to stuff like this he's miles and miles ahead.

It makes him laugh—forgetting that his lips are against Alvaro's neck. Alvaro squirms.

"What's so funny?"

Raul presses a kiss to his skin in apology. "Nothing. Just thinking about how dumb you are."

Alvaro sinks his fingers into Raul's hair. "Look who's talking."

"I know," Raul says blithely. "That must make you _really_ dumb, huh?"

"Shut up."

Raul can't help his grin. "Make me."

And Alvaro goes very, very still. Which is strange, because Alvaro is definitely interested; Raul can tell by the hardness pressing against his hip. And Alvaro likes being in control. So this should work.

But when Raul looks up, there's hesitation in Alvaro's face. Not just hesitation, though—concern.

Raul laughs then. "I _give you permission_ to make me," he says fondly, poking Alvaro's cheek.

Alvaro blushes. Tugs on Raul's hair.

"Shut up," he says, but when he tugs again, Raul complies.

-

_**June 3rd, 2011. Just after midnight.**_

Iker drums his fingers on the desktop. He lets the Skype dial tone ring unanswered for about twenty seconds, then types out a warning:

_fabregas i know your there_

Cesc's face pops up on his screen not two seconds later. "Iker! Uh. Hi!"

His smile really is kind of devastating, Iker notes. Too bad for Cesc that Iker has seen it much too often by this point to even consider being affected for a moment. He crosses his arms.

"I hope you have a good explanation for why Iniesta is wearing all black, while Sergio and Pique are in the hotel lobby hiding behind potted plants and scaring local tourists."

"What?" Cesc looks scandalized. "That's not— I mean. How am I supposed to know!"

Iker gives him a Look.

"It wasn't my plan, okay! Seriously!"

Iker doesn't relent. This 'plan'—if it can be called that—has Xavi written all over it. And Pique might be dumb, but it takes a special brand of lunatic to bring _Xavi_ into a lovers' spat.

Finally Cesc wilts under the pressure. "I just..."

"Decided to meddle with other people's lives again? Cesc, how many times have I told you—"

"But they're really cute together!"

Iker opens his mouth to respond and finds that the words have, quite simply, been vaporized under the crushing nonsense of it all. He stares at Cesc. Who, after a long moment, at least has the decency to look vaguely embarrassed.

"They've made up," Iker says at length. "In case you wanted to know."

"What? When?"

"Alvaro came back at around nine."

Cesc's eyes bulge slightly. "But. Nine. Then Xavi made that whole plan for nothing?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Cesc looks put-out. "Well, are you going to go tell Geri he can stop pretending to be a ninja now? He's been pretty horrible at it."

Iker considers it. "I don't know. Might be good for them to learn a lesson the hard way."

"Come on, Iker." Cesc turns his whining to wheedling, "Please?" He adds, "Raul would want you to do the right thing."

Low blow. But he has a point.

Iker sighs, "I'll go get them in a minute."

"You're the best," Cesc says, beaming. "When are you coming back?"

"Sunday."

"Okay. See you Monday, then?"

Cesc has that silly smile on his face again, the one he gets when he's thinking of home or a particularly good match in which he scored the winning goal. And as often as he's seen it, Iker doesn't think he'll ever get tired of knowing that he's the one who put it there.

"Monday," he agrees, and starts counting down the hours.

 

* * *

 

_**Out-takes: June 3rd, 2011.**_

Gerard is having breakfast with Andres when Victor slides into the seat next to them. Andres nods good morning; Gerard mumbles into his toast. Reina waves hello from across the table.

Staying up past midnight waiting for Arbeloa wasn't the greatest idea Xavi's ever had. Arbeloa hadn't even shown up. And this morning, he and Albiol had waltzed down to breakfast practically arm in arm. None of it made any sense. Then again, Gerard figures, they're Madridistas.

He nearly knocks over the salt as he reaches for the jam. Victor catches it just in time.

"You okay?" Victor asks.

"Yeah. Fine. Last night, you know? Kinda tired."

Victor frowns as he peppers his eggs. "What happened last night anyway? I thought I heard something coming from Arbeloa's room. Were you there, too?"

Reina snorts into his cornflakes. Andres looks up slowly; their eyes meet over Victor's breakfast plate for one, guilty moment. Then Andres coughs.

"I _knew_ we forgot something," Gerard mutters, stabbing at his toast.

-

"Where _were_ you last night?" is the first thing out of Silva's mouth when he sits down, his tray meeting the tabletop with a clatter of indignant silverware.

Villa pauses in the middle of a bite. Chews. Swallows. "What?"

Silva picks up a spoon and jabs it at Villa. "Last night, when Raul and Arbeloa had their fight. Where the hell were you?"

"Oh," says Villa. "I was with Pepe and Xabi."

Silva stares at him.

"On Team Arbeloa," Villa adds for clarification.

Silva puts his spoon down.

"Pepe said it would be better, you see..."

Silva takes a deep breath. "You left me," he says, "to the mercy of Barca's collective lunacy, because of _Pepe?_ "

"Not because of Pepe," Villa corrects him. "Couldn't let their break-up get between us, right? I had to put our relationship first."

"And in what universe is siding with the opposition _putting our relationship first?_ "

Villa frowns. "You're not listening. I did this for us."

Silva throws up his hands. "Fine." His chair scrapes over the hardwood floor. "I get it, Villa. This is what passes for logic in that brain of yours." He picks up his tray. "Well, I hope you and your logic live a long and happy life. You deserve each other."

"Wait, what—"

But Silva is already gone, leaving a fork-clinking silence in his wake.

-

Nando ducks behind a pillar as Silva storms past. He listens for the chime of the elevator, the faint sounds of the door sliding shut.

Only then does he lift the phone to his ear again.

"Scratch that," he says. "It's a Code Blue. Repeat: _Code Blue._ "


End file.
